“This is not about what you can handle, Layla. I don’t know why you always have to make it about you.”
“I’m not trying to make this about me.” She had bypassed staying calm and had gone straight to yelling, and the top of her head felt like it was about to explode. “You say that every time we hit a rough patch or a really rough patch or a patch where I didn’t fucking know how we were going to pay our bills. Every single time I’ve gotten upset, you say, ‘Layla, this is not about you.’ But if someone’s actions affect you and those actions send you into a panicked state of mind, then yes, it is about me. I am so goddamn sick and tired of keeping this boat steady. This boat,” she said, waving her arms around to include him and her and the room they were standing in of the house they couldn’t really afford. “I go to work all day and then I teach kids at night because somebody has to keep this boat afloat. And once I get it there, I don’t need you coming along and rocking it. You drag me along behind you and all I’m trying to do is find some sort of footing. You love chasing the next big commission. You get higher than a kite from it. But you know what, I used to get high chasing what I loved, too. But I had to give that up.”
“Yes, I know, because you haven’t ever stopped talking about that. Poor Layla,” he said. “She wanted to be a rock star and Liam took it away from her. But did you really think you were going to be a rock star, Layla?” The look on his face said that he sure hadn’t and that she’d been a fool to think she could.
It was odd how much time you spent getting to know someone at the beginning of a relationship. The corny conversations when you desperately wanted to know their favorite color, favorite meal, middle name. But you learned a lot more about a person at a relationship’s demise than you ever knew about them at its inception, including how badly they could wound you with their words.
“It was never about being a rock star, you asshole. It was always about doing something I loved that I wasn’t ready to stop doing yet.”
* * *
Liam slept on the couch that night, and the next morning, when Layla woke up in their bed all by herself, she started to think about what she wanted out of life. What she might do. The thoughts seeped in like smoke under the door. What if I left? What if I just said, “I’m done”?
Would it blindside Liam? What about her friends and family? Would they be shocked? Did she even care?
A few months back, Layla had taken out a piece of paper and written all of Liam’s good qualities on one side and his bad qualities on the other. Liam had lots of good qualities that she couldn’t ignore. He was kind, generous, affectionate, and a good listener. He was committed. But he was also horrible with their finances and he was never happy with what he had. And being a good listener didn’t really matter when he heard what Layla said but then did whatever he wanted anyway.
Layla did not relish the thought of blowing up her life. But she told herself it would probably feel like those moments right before you threw up or ripped off a Band-Aid that had really adhered itself to your skin: not pleasant, but once it was over, you felt so much better that you wondered why you waited so long for the relief.
* * *
It was a full day after Liam spent the night on the couch before they started talking to each other again. “I heated up some of that leftover pasta for lunch and made you a plate,” he said.
“Thanks.” And then, a little later that afternoon, Layla said, “I picked up the dry cleaning. Your suits are in the closet.”
Liam smiled at her. “Thanks.”
She had known for a long time that she and Liam needed marriage counseling. Maybe she could ask around and get a recommendation. They could talk it out with an impartial third party so that Layla wouldn’t have to feel like the bad guy. Maybe Liam would listen. She would listen, too.
They might have temporarily mended fences, but Layla did not trust that Liam hadn’t used their credit card to put down a deposit on that country club membership anyway, and she’d been checking the account daily. If her laptop battery hadn’t died and she hadn’t grabbed Liam’s iPad instead, Layla would never have seen the Facebook chat window he forgot to close. The one that went back almost eighteen months and was filled with his and Suzanne’s frequent declarations of undying love.
When Liam came home from work that night, she handed it to him.
He didn’t deny anything.
He didn’t fight for her.
He almost seemed relieved.
Layla went into the bedroom and when she came out, she was rolling a suitcase behind her. “I’m done, and I’m leaving you.”
* * *
Layla’s marriage to Liam reminded her a lot of that frog analogy, the one where the frog is sitting in a pot of water, but the temperature increases so slowly it doesn’t realize it’s being boiled alive. By the time Layla pulled her head out of her ass, the water she’d been sitting in for years was boiling but good.
She stood up and put her coffee cup in the sink. The last thing she wanted to do on such a cold and miserable day was venture out and then stand in line at the Social Security office. But after today’s errand, Layla Hilding-Cook would once again be known simply as Layla Hilding. She was already anticipating the satisfaction she would feel when she returned home and drew a heavy black line through the item on her to-do list. It would be like a rebirth of sorts, the next season of her life.
A better season.
* * *
Layla held her umbrella tight as she walked along the sidewalk to the front door of the Social Security office, the rain looking more like sleet as it hit the ground with a plop. The line was every bit as long as she’d assumed it would be, but as she stood waiting her turn, she smiled and thought about how one short year could make such a difference. Maybe she was meant to savor the recollection of the past and of how far she’d come because it made what was about to unfold so much sweeter.
When it was finally her turn, she handed over the necessary documents and walked back out the door ten minutes later. Her phone pinged with a text from Josh: Ready for lunch?
Yes, starving!
See you soon. Xo
Ready for lunch, yes, but also the rest of her life.
chapter 45
Layla
Layla pulled the collar of her coat tighter around her neck. She and Tonya stomped their feet to keep the blood flowing, their breath coming out in icy puffs as they watched the cars in the drop-off line inch forward. “Spring must be canceled this year,” Layla said. “I think we’re stuck in second winter.”